Five Years Ago
by Madi Holmes
Summary: What if Henry Winchester hadn't screwed up? Note: This is a story that is not told in chronological order. Dean and Sam are sent to a universe where Henry didn't disappear for 60 years, and just how different that made the universe for everyone. It's not better, it's not worse. It's just different. R/R please.
1. Chapter 1

Five Years Ago

Summary: What would have happened if Henry Winchester hadn't screwed up?

Note: This is an AU for now.

Prologue

2007

"We are ever so grateful for your loss..."

Dean tried to smile, failed.

Too many hugs, cards, friends, sympathies.

It was unreal.

Nothing affected him, hit him, hurt him, made him feel anything.

He was auto piloting, keeping the family intact, the funeral on course, the grieving to be done by everyone but him, having to hold and hug too many other people with non holding him instead.

His father had stroked out, quick, easy. Nobody had ever expected John Winchester to go so peacefully, least of all Dean and Sam.

There was still the meeting later. The accord. Politicking at its worst.

Plans from decades ago, only now being put into action.

Dean felt Sam approach behind him. Realized that they were finally alone with their father. Whoever had been speaking to him had disappeared without Dean realizing it.

The two went mute as they started their last real conversation. Questions and answers that they'd had asked each other so many times in the past. Had long since memorized the questions and answers. All of it done nonverbally, each knowing the questions and answers, knowing everything that couldn't be said.

"Are you ready?" Sam indicated.

Dean tried to smile for his brother, just couldn't get it out. Felt like crawling into the casket with his father.

"No. It's going to get ugly, and I can't protect you. And that nothing that we'll say to each other will be true. You are the most important thing. You are my brother. Never forget that."

"You're still going back to school?"

"Yes," Dean nodded. "Especially now."

"We won't be able to talk like this for a while."

"Years, probably."

"And then you'll come back...Promise me, Dean. You won't abandon me. You have to come back."

Dean stilled, refused to answer even in the silence of the cemetery.

The conversation stillborn, ended. Each realizing that their brotherhood was ending. Couldn't look at each other.

"Dean," Sam initiated out loud, giving Dean have this final gift of not being the one to start the fight. "I can't believe you!" he spat, full of vitriol and pain. "Now? Over dad's grave? You just up and change everything about the Men of Letters? I can't believe you!"

"That's not what this is is about, Sam!" Dean yelled back, "And you know it!"

"We're supposed to only engage in research! There's a reason why we don't go out and hunt, and now you want to just up and destroy centuries' worth of work."

"Stop it, Sammy. I'm the oldest brother, and I've been trained to lead the group since I was four. You're the one acting like a dick... You know you can't stop me."

"And what about me? I was groomed to just like you! And I have the PhD and the JD to my name.I was here running everything when you were out driving around the country with dad! You're don't even want the job. And then you waltz back in, and suddenly you're calling primogeniture rights? This isn't a monarchy, Dean. I have just as much right as you do."

"You weren't running anything! You were a research intern. I was out in the real world. Not stuck in the library."

"Dean, that's what the Men of Letters is about! And dad and you never got that. You guys wanted to go hunters."

"And you know what's best for this place? I grew up here too, but no. Sammy Winchester knows this place better than I do."

"Yes!"

"You're going to get everyone killed."

Sam stilled. "God, Dean. You think I'm that incompetent? It's either you lead or everyone dies?"

"Yes, Sam. It's that simple."

Sam went white hot, hurt, angry, wanting to punch his brother until his knuckles were broken and bleeding.

He walked away.

"That's it, Sam!" Dean yelled after him, "Walk away like the bitch you are! You walk away from this family, don't come back."

Sam didn't break his stride, "that's what I want, Dean," he answered. Left his brother broken on the grave. Stomped toward the fleet of limousines, closed his eyes, let the hatred seethe out away from him. Growled loudly in anger.

"Hello, Samuel, come sit down" an older man said quietly after Sam had calmed down.

"Marcus," Sam responded, plopped down onto a marble bench.

"I realize that this is poor timing, but-"

"Stop the bullshit, I'm not going to backstab my brother."

"You don't have to, Sam. Everyone knows that the two of you were destined for this power struggle- that even God personally exalted you with his grace. But Dean... Dean wants change simply for the sake of change, and you want to continue our traditions of quiet research. It's a simple matter of understanding what the Men of Letters actually do. You need to be our leader, Samuel." Marcus cooed

Sam sat there, contemplating, staring at random tombstones, looked away, saw the sun off in the distance. "Fine," he finally announced. "I'll do it."

"Very good!" Marcus exclaimed, "And, Sam. I am truly sorry for your loss."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam Winchester woke up to serenity.

He was sprawled out in a bed of flannel and pillowy down. Dust motes lazing overhead in a soft wind as curtains billowed out from the window. He'd never seen the room before, but it somehow fit this new universe. Lounging there, he knew that he should get up, escape, find Dean, but the open window wafted cool air over him, making him groggy, lazy.

He mused that he'd been kidnapped and dumped in worse places, that he could enjoy a peaceful kidnapping for once in his life.

After a while, he gave up, got up, stretched, scratched, mulled around.

Everything felt so... familiar. And off. He opened the sock drawer, found socks, jeans in the jean drawer, underwear, shirts, all where he would have arranged them in his own way. Put on the one plaid shirt, a pair of jeans, cinched on a belt,thick socks and boots. Even found a Smith & Wesson Sigma semiautomatic right where he would hide one. Clicked out the magazine, slid it back, and holstered it into his jeans.

Opening the nightstand drawer, he found a beat-up wallet that had his social security card, a vast collection of library cards, an old university ID, expired paper giftcards, voter ID, a condom, and two older twenties. He pocketed the wallet, and checked the bottom drawer.

His heart seized as he saw an old polaroid picture of him and Jess smiling. Sam remembered the party, vaguely remembered the picture being taken, but never knew what happened to the picture itself. Jess sported that goofy grin whenever she was slightly hammered, and he realized that he'd been palming her ass at the time. He looked at it for a bit, then went back into the drawer. Another picture of him and Jess in a suit and dress peered up as they were cutting cake. He slid it across the drawer, a new picture of him and Ruby at a wedding reception.

Sam quickly replaced all of the pictures, and slammed the drawer shut.

He bolted from the room, through a hallway, searched the house, and finally entered the kitchen. Sighed with relief when he found a phone on the microwave. Called several phone numbers, connected to department stores, warehouses, random strangers, numbers no longer in service. Thought for a second, decided to call Bobby anyway.

"Hello?"

"Bobby," Sam let out, losing oxygen.

"Yeah."

"This is Sam."

"Winchester? Yeah, how are you doing?"

Sam slumped at the voice, recognizing the formal tone, had made a mistake. "I'm fine, Bobby. Say, have you... have you seen Dean? He's not picking up his phone."

"Not for a few years, Sam." Bobby replied in that 'you very well know when I last to talked to your brother' tone.

Sam deflated a bit further, recognizing that Bobby had entered his untrusting bastard mode, tried to recoup whatever gains he'd lost in the past thirty seconds. "So, yeah, anyway, if you see him will you let him know I'm looking for him? No, wait. I think he's calling on the other line. Sorry, gotta take this, Bobby. Talk to you later," he quickly hit the end button, needed to run.

Put the phone in his pocket, checked the gun and ammo supply, fished a knife from the knife drawer, salt from the pantry, and snagged the keys from the keyring. At the last minute, he opened the pantry again, and pulled out a wad of cash and fake ID from a box of Lucky Charms.

Entering the garage, he quickly got into the shiny Audi, and took off. Drove around the block a few times to orient himself, and headed into town.

Everything had that sheen of familiarity still, giving him double vision at times, until he realized that he was in Lebanon, Kansas.

But it was all different.

The houses were nicer, the stores thriving, the streets clean and recently blacktopped. Where his Lebanon had been a dirt tract of small town poverty, this Lebanon was injected with the kind of older, affluent money that prided itself on never broadcasting it. A nice elementary school, city hall covered in flowers and marble, a post office with fresh green sod, a library that was being rebuilt from the foundation up. Sam's little spit of a convenience store that sometimes sold sketchy sour cream and prided itself on having only half of its staff strung out on meth whippets was upgraded to a super organic locally owned coop that displayed signs for a farmer's market every Saturday and Wednesday.

Sam felt a little jealous.

He finally memorized the town completely, searched for Dean, checked the main escape routes to get out of town (Hwy 81 North would go to Nebraska where he could catch I-80, Hwy 81 South would connect him to I-70 with a few, small detours. Or he could also take less known routes. Going west or east on School Avenue would take him out onto the county roads and small highways where he could truly get lost in the world as only he and Dean could).

But he decided to stay in the new and improved Lebanon, decided to approach the bunker. Turned onto the driveway, and slammed to a halt.

A man standing in front of a front gate kiosk looked at him, opened the bar, and waved him through.

Sam threw the car in reverse, backed up ten feet, braked right as Dean stepped in front of his back bumper.

The phone rang. Sam clicked on the speaker.

"Sammy," Dean rapped his knuckles on the trunk, holding a phone up to his ear, "we need to talk."

"Nice tie," Sam replied, unconvinced.

Dean grinned, Sam almost bought it. "Yeah, my wife picked it out. Come on, might as well have the big talk now. Get you a coffee or salad or maybe some of that hummus you like."

Sam snapped the car back into gear.

His brother sighed, pinched his nose, "I see you've got that bitch look thing down too... Look, I'm Dean Winchester, just not your Dean. There are... things we need to discuss."

"Where's Dean?"

"Where else? Broke out, did a runner. Probably halfway to Smith Center or Bob Singer's place. Out poking around, looking for you."

"Broke out?'

Dean shrugged, "I let him go. He wasn't a prisoner and neither are you. But he needed to run. Because he's Dean. So I ordered everyone to stand down, and let him escape. Also because I didn't want him to destroy my little kingdom by the sea," the man grinned cockily.

"As I am also Dean Winchester, I know. He had to stroke his ego, escape, find you, figure out what happened to you both, and then try to save the world again. He'll come back when he's all cranky and tired and doesn't need to smite something. Come on in out of the cold, Sammy. I'll personally give you the three hour tour. Make you some herbal tea."

"Yeah, no," Sam backed up another five feet. Slammed to a halt when Sam Winchester emerged from the tree line. Grabbed the phone from his brother.

"I see you've stolen my car."

Sam couldn't comprehend anymore, turned off the car, and got out.

Sam, the other Sam, turned to his brother, "Told you you couldn't do it," he smiled as Dean ruefully slipped him a twenty.


	3. Chapter 3

1955

The wheat field had been flattened, destroyed. The treelines splintered and trashed. Tufts of small fires dotted the landscape, broiling grey smoke slithering up the sky.

"Do you see it?" The man asked, his fingers digging into the teenager's arm, bruising tendon and muscle.

The six other men arced behind them as the two of them stood at the crater's rim, the boy short and thin, the man towering over him, protecting him.

"Yes, Mr. Quinton," the boy answered in Germanic exultation, trying to sink to his knees, held up by the hand on his forearm.

"Willem, tell me what you see."

The boy started to rock gently, left, right left, "Golden beauty," he answered. "Music, whispers, lavender," his eyes flashing gold and silver, "he says that he is an angel of the Lord."

The six shifted into defensive positions.

"What is he?" Quinton asked again.

"Ein Engel... an angel, Sir."

"Edward," a man stepped up next to the two, whispered, "if this is true, it must have fallen."

"Nein!" Willem reacted, started, panicked. "Not this one, Mr. Drake! He has told me. I swear-"

"The angel lies," The man interrupted, guttural in Quinton's left ear. "It would lie even to the boy."

"He says that he can hear you, and that you mustn't say such things." the boy interpreted, wiping his hands on his shirt, listed forward, "you have to believe me. He is good."

"He is corrupting Willem," Drake hissed, "and you're letting him!"

"No, you mustn't say that," Willem turned from Quinton back to the angel, pleading, listening, "yes, you must explain. They will not listen to me. Yes, of course, I accept, Angel."

"No!" Quinton roared, his hand snapping back in pain as the boy began to glow, enveloping the entire field in celestial light.

The light sucked into itself, imploding, exploding out in a sine wave, knocking everyone over as the boy disappeared, re-emerging in front of them, changed, no longer a child.

Quinton stood up, pensive, reaching out for the boy. "Willem?"

The teenager stared at him, confused, his shoulders shifted back, his stance changed, more sure, lethal. "I am not Willem Schmidt."

"Give us the boy back," Quinton ordered as a third man stepped forward, dropped a lit match on to the ground. The soaked wheat blazed upward, crisscrossing entire sections in a circular pattern until the boy was trapped in a single section of fire. "Give us Willem back," Quinton ordered again. He is an innocent."

"He assented to be my vessel," the angel stated again, "There is much that we must discuss."

"No," Quinton frowned, "you are to release him first."

"But-"

"You will be exorcised one way or another."

"That is impossible, you must listen to me."

"No."

The boy went from obtuse confusion to storm cloud dark, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and aggression. "You would defy an angel of the Lord?"

"I would defy one of the Fallen. The Impure."

"I am not- you are mistaken," Willem's voice protested, "release me," he finally commanded.

"Quinton," Drake said quietly, pulling him aside. "You cannot listen to him. He is evil incarnate."

The leader thought, went still, then quietly agreed.

"What are we going to do?"

Quinton looked around the area, the rolling flint hills of wheat with few trees and exposed rock. "We shall move him to the archives," he finally stated, "To protect Willem. I can't abandon him, and I can't just leave one of the fallen here."

"But, Willem, even if we somehow successfully transport him, that sounds exceedingly dangerous. Something that powerful could destroy our entire collection in seconds."

"I know," Quinton sighed, knowing.

"He's a child."

"I. Know." Quinton emphasized, ending the conversation.

"And a saint."

Quinton looked at the boy trapped in the fire, his brow furrowed, "I am aware of that. I will save him. There has to be a way."

Drake bowed his head, turned back to the boy. He watched him watching them.

"When you're ready to leave the boy and be cast back down into the fiery depths of hell, we'll talk," Quinton ftold the angel, turning his back to the boy, walked across the field, and got into the back of a sedan. Couldn't look at the boy or the other men, just stared down at the leather seats, trying to not react, break down, figure out some plan. Couldn't come up with anything. "We need to head into town. I need to find a phone," he finally told the driver.


	4. Chapter 4

1990

Dean fell asleep, hating Latin adverbs, adjectives, verbs, nouns, prepositions, pretty much the entire language. He also hated English. He wanted to do things, build stuff, do nothing at all, but the schooling never stopped, and it drove him crazy.

He longed for the sticky Kansas heat of summer, yellowed out days, and bike trips across the prairie. He wanted to get out and explore the backroads, dirt paths, hiking trails trundled across Smith County until he finally could escape. Just everything.

They were two weeks away from vacation and already scraped up, black eyed, and bloody kneed. He'd managed to weasel out of class early, and shimmied up the nearest cottonwood. He'd brought his Latin textbook up with him, somehow convincing himself that he was actually going to study.

But he just rolled his eyes shut, dropped it. The book fluttered ten feet to a thump, exploded apart. Pages feathered everywhere.

Twenty minutes later, Dean's shadow finally arrived, breathless, instantly mourning the book's death. His little brother picked it up, trying to put the gritty pages back in order.

Dean crawled down, slipped out onto the lowest branch, and flipped backwards. He hung upside down by his knees, watching his brother try to do emergency surgery on the murdered book. "Guess what I heard?" he finally asked, blood rushing to his ears.

"What?" Sam asked, still unhappy at the loss.

Dean ignored the tone, too infatuated with the rumor. "I heard from Matthew that there's an angel around here."

"Really?" Sam's voice twittered up, eyes boggling.

""You really are that gullible, Sammy," Dean declared, grinned when his brother gave him a sour look. "But, yeah. His Great-Uncle Wilbur saw the library being built and then when they moved the angel inside it. Some guy just taken inside and never seen again."

"Why?" Sam questioned. "Whys jail an angel in the archives?"

"I dunno. Maybe it was... Satan?" Dean laughed at the Church Lady impression.

"It must have been an accident, Dean," the younger brother declared judiciously. "We should free it."

Dean went silent, unsure where to go from there, then decided to actually ponder it. "Yeah, maybe," he flipped himself off the branch.

Missed the landing, and whomped hard onto his back. "If it really even is an angel," he stood up after a minute, brushed the dust, cottonwood puffs, and grass stains from his body. "It could be pretending, Sammy."

Dean had honestly forgotten about that afternoon with Sam. He'd had to explain the book's demise during dinner and been summarily grounded. He had things to do, and then he was suddenly stuck doing extra homework on top of having more drills in the morning. He secretly liked the marine stuff his dad threw at him, but being ground was a valid enough reasion not to like something.

As he was flipping his pencil up and down, Dean heard his brother padding down the hallway. Smirking, Dean got up, deciding that being grounded was being grounded no matter what he did. "Where are you going?" Dean hissed quietly against the night gloom, flicked his brother's ear anyway.

"To free the angel," Sam replied, rubbing his cartiledge. "Like you said we should."

"Maybe," Dean countered. "maybe we should talk to him first. See if he's really an angel."

"Dean," Sam looked at his brother, his own body going numb.

And then Dean saw it too. Felt the same need to free the angel that Sam had. Finally followed him down into the archives.

They went together, down past the bookshelves, entered a room full of microfiche and old photographs. Sam clipped on the lights as Dean leaned down under the bottom shelf, and clicked a switch. The shelving unit ground open, stopped halfway.

The boys pushed it fully open, felt it before they saw it.

A teenaged boy kneeled before them in supplication. A ring of fire encircling his form.

"Dear ones," his voice fluttered gently as his eyes opened, flashing gold and silver.

Sam slid behind Dean, suddenly nervous.

"I have been praying for this day, Children. I am.. much relieved that you have finally heard me."

Dean apologized, not sure why. "I'm sorry... we didn't know."

"It is of no concern," the teenager smiled patiently. "I have learned much during this time."

Dean nodded, agreed. "Sammy, go find some water," pushed his brother to move. The two stood in silence as Sam finally returned with a full Flintstone's jelly jar and handed it over.

Looking at the cartoons, Dean rolled his eyes, and positioned Sam back out of the way. Stepped forward-

"Dean!"

Dean looked up.

John and two otherm men raced toward him. "Stop, Dean!"

He looked back at his father, the angel, then returned to the circle of fire, dowsed the flame.

The circle sputtered, died.

Light and sound immediately filled the room, so brightly refracted that they felt it pierce their skin. Eyelids still full of haloed coronas as a flutter of feathers echoed off the walls.

The boy emerged from his prison, stepping delicately over smoldering ash and smoke.

Everyone froze.

The angel turned to the boys, smiled sadly. "Dean, Samuel, we still have much to discuss. But later." He stated, looking weary and dazed. "I need to return to Heaven immediately, and reward Willem for his aid. Much has been done against him, but I merely wish to leave in peace and without malice. I expect great things from you two," He looked down at the boys. "One day, soon, we shall be reunited."

The angel disappeared finally, leaving the adults and children alone in the smoke and flickering lights.


End file.
